GIVE ME BACK MY
OLD 'MERIKA'
('put another star on the flag, for
the state of Stupidity')
You can have your old spittoon and the circle jerk
with it. You can feast your eyes on lions and bears
and thinking of it here. Woodsheds and corrals, hot
liquor and varmints with guns. The acreage the
surveyor forgot to leave behind. Lewis and Clark
and the Smith Brothers too. Mormons with sidereal
trumpets and all the bruised hieroglyphics of Louis
Armstrong's marijuana coronet bliss. None of it
matters. It's another day and another age, and I fell
asleep awakened on Philadelphia's solid streets: black
men on Walnut screaming of the Lord behind pistachio'd
microphones of condor and eagle and armed guards who
brush people back. The stupid squad car idles across
the opposite curb, listening for nothing but watching
the herd. On the bench, as I was, with my feet up
and two girls making me laugh, it took more years
than sumac and Sears together to get me up. I
roused myself by thinking silent darlings and
gold rings of blemish and pearl. A businessman
walked by, slowly; turning his head to look around,
I noticed his grimace and his sound. Alarms on the
cellphone, and a hesitance to the face. Good lord
the gracious and watch the open space. He's running
for his life right now, he's running. Lemur. Coastguard.
Yellow cigar. Give me back what's long gone.
Give it all back to me.
Huzzah!
No comments:
Post a Comment